


Ashes to Ashes

by hexnhart



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Flint is a mess, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not beta-read, Oneshot, and deserves cuddles, picks up after S2 finale, rated for references to rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexnhart/pseuds/hexnhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in Charles Town, Captain Flint requires absolution.<br/>There is one person willing to give it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [et_cetera55](https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/gifts).



It is night. The Seahawk bobs tiredly on the sparse waves as around her all colours fade to grey. Two crews, two captains at each other’s throats aboard her; rum – the only temporary reprieve from tempers turning foul, and that running low as well.  
\- Captain, we need to restock. – Billy shakes Flint by the shoulder, trying to get some kind of reaction out of him.

\- Ashton Harbour is close enough. The news should not have reached it yet. – and it is decided. The great bulk of the ship frets in the inconstant wind, turning back towards the shores of Carolina to make berth mere leagues away from the ravaged Charles Town. Before the last red glint leaves the horizon, they drop anchor just out of sight of the main port, within rowing distance for a party to fetch supplies. As soon as they are gone, the deck falls silent once more.

As if everything could be wished away like the colours that are gone from the world. The captain rests his brow on his folded hands, managing a single jittery breath. The pulsing void inside him stretches its tentacles greedily, it looks for signs of weakness, but finds only apathy and snippets of useless observations – the sails are sagging, dank smell of burnt fat, there is a little light level with the shoreline, like a pin-prick through which the unwritten back of the world shines through. It is not calling, nothing would deign to call him now, but the man resolves to follow it none the less.

Flint steadily lowers the skiff until its belly smacks against the water, jumping into it and hoisting the sail. The breeze draws steadily towards the shore, which is worse in a way, because he cannot drown out his thoughts with the repetitive motion of rowing. For a while there is nothing but watching the light grow near, little white star dissolving into a lantern secured at the end of a wooden pier. There is a figure standing beside it, dark cloak billowing. Manoeuvring the skiff closer, Flint tosses up the line; but as the hands that catch it, slip, almost lose it, then awkwardly pull the boat in, he wishes he hadn’t.

\- Abigail? – the man clambers onto the rickety gangway, redoing the knot on the line that kept his boat tethered (the girl left it way too loose).  
\- I saw you ship. – she offers by way of explanation, toying with coils of hair that escaped from under a raised hood on either sides of her face. – I thought… maybe somebody would bring news.

Abigail pauses, succumbing to the tension that reigned over the deserted beach. Strange birds screech in the jungle beyond the tide-line and it is almost too easy to imagine they are owls, measuring out the night in some rusticated English park. There was not much to see in the fervent light, with no stars to speak of, but the girl studies Mr McGraw meticulously none the less – the tremor in his hands, his haunted frown.

\- God, I feared you were dead! – Abigail closes the couple steps between them in a rush, embracing the man, bringing her arms as high as her small stature would allow. She can probably smell burning on him, and blood, and filth, but he cannot bear to push her away. They stay like that while the tide comes in, rocking the skiff against the pier’s supports with dull knocks.  
\- There is a hut I found further up the beach. – her voice is the only thing to focus on, so McGraw drags his pained gaze to her. – I ran away. But nobody knows, they will not come looking. I just needed some time on my own.

She leads him by the hand, like a child, forsaking the lantern that has grown feeble, the candle flickering its last, and he follows. Up the sagging sand to the crooked shack, oddly solid against the shadows of wind-mused vegetation. There is no door to speak of, greyish light seeps into the single room, but the far corners are utterly dark. The girl begins fussing needlessly over the hearth, leaving McGraw to find a cot and lower himself onto it.  
This is all somehow foolish, but here, in the privacy of his grief, the man cannot refuse her petty homemaking. He could take her. Now. Force the girl against the three-legged table, the gauze of her skirts hiked up about her hips, trusting her not to scream, relishing in the control over a woman’s body when the rest of his power has been stripped away. He could (although Flint doubts he would get it up after the past couple of days), but it would bring no relief.  
Sensing a change in the atmosphere, or maybe simply having finished stoking the fire, Abigail sidles up to him, the cot barely sagging under her weight.

\- I will keep you safe. – she looks him in the eye, a soot smudge on her cheek striking against the paleness of skin. Her childish resolve has Flint choking back a bitter laugh – this kid neither knows nor understands the better part of yesterday’s events. And even if she did, she would be unable to comprehend them. In her ignorance, she is unable to forgive him. But there is comfort in that, also, for where there is no understanding, there is no judgement. Perhaps she sees him as he cannot see himself.

\- What of the stories your father told you about me?  
\- They are of a man I do not know, this far away Captain Flint on the high seas. You are not that man. – Abigail embraces him a second time, moulding her body soft with the first flush of womanhood to his, clever fingers brushing greasy ginger hair out of his face. And James sags in his seat, as if some great restraint holding him together is taken away, allowing himself to lean on this little creature and finding her form firm and steady.

\- Come, sleep now. – the cot is narrow, but the girl does not shy away from him, nor complain at the tight stays that must be digging into her body as she twists around to better accommodate their two shapes. Before McGraw has time to respond, her breathing evens out, whether in pretence or genuine sleep. His own lids begin to grow heavy.

Tomorrow he will tell Abigail he murdered her father, tomorrow she will hate him, tomorrow…

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank et_cetera55 for their inspirational piece 'Broken'  
> as well as all the talented individuals, whose work went into creating Black Sails.  
> I am making no money from this and hold no claims to artistic/intellectual ideas or characters.


End file.
